The Difference a Friend Makes
by Radon65
Summary: Sherlock solves a murder pre-series. It's fun (and rather dangerous) but he imagines it might be more fun if he had someone to help him. Someone of flesh and blood whom he could talk to, bounce ideas off, and not be told to piss off. Then he meets John. A comparison of Sherlock's life and work before and after meeting John.
1. Chapter 1

**The Difference A Friend Makes**

**Chapter 1**

The door to the small, dark flat banged open and the world's only consulting detective stumbled in, his left hand clutching his ribs and his right flung out to steady himself.

He caught the edge of the single, cushioned chair and sank down into it heavily, leaning back against the cushions and gritting his teeth, the rasping echo of his harsh breathing the only sound in the room. For several seconds he just sat there, panting, letting his eyes fall shut and relaxing marginally now that the danger was past. They wouldn't come knocking on his flat door - they'd more or less accomplished what they'd been sent out to do, and would be long gone by now. No sense searching for him and risk running into the police. They were mercenaries with no real stake in the game, and arrest likely wasn't worth whatever they were being paid. Sherlock shifted in an attempt to ease the hot flares of pain in his side and chest, but the movement only aggravated them. He let his muscles go limp instead and tried to even out his breathing, which was only making everything hurt worse. Running half a mile at top speed with injuries wasn't exactly conducive to one's health.

"Ah, but he's only given me more information," Sherlock wheezed to the room at large. "The sort of man who'd..." He tailed off, wincing, and decided he'd better take a closer look at himself.

He levered himself out of the chair with difficulty, his body protesting the cruel decision, and staggered into the bath, fumbling for the light switch and leaning heavily on the tile counter. After a moment, the light flicked on, and after blinking for a few seconds to adjust to the change, Sherlock squinted at his reflection in the mirror, and grimaced at what he saw. His face was far from pretty. His left eye was blackening rapidly and starting to swell a bit, and there was a small slice on his right cheek where one of his assailants had been wearing a ring. There was another cut on his temple, which he had the brick wall of the alley to thank for, and it had bled profusely as head injuries were wont to do, leaving a spread of dark red down the left side of his face and in front of his ear. It had stopped bleeding at present though, and some of the blood was already turning beginning to dry and turn black.

His lip was split, as he'd suspected, and blood had trickled down his chin and smeared across his jaw. But he didn't think the blood was from his lip alone - he'd been tasting copper all the way home, indicating a mouth injury, and he hoped he didn't have any damaged teeth. Sherlock tugged off his gloves and probed his teeth and gums with his fingers, breathing a small sigh of relief that the teeth were intact and none loose. After a moment, he located the source of the blood - he must have bit his tongue at some point and not really noticed with everything else going on. He leaned over the basin and spat, his saliva coming out red and runny. Straightening up, he ran a hand over his nose and smiled crookedly in the mirror, glad he had at least managed to spare it. He dug around in the cupboard and pulled out his meagre first aid kit, throwing it open and pulling out gauze and antiseptic.

He ought to stock some better medical supplies, he mused, as he folded an ancient piece of gauze into a thick square and poured alcohol over it. Being a consulting detective was far from one of the most dangerous jobs London had to offer, but it did occasionally put him in a position where he needed a bit of care. Fourteen months ago, he'd been stabbed - not badly, just a laceration on his forearm, but he'd needed stitches, and he'd had to sit in a doctor's office with Mycroft's shadow looming over him while he was carefully sewed up. The scar from the incident was thin and white, and already fading away into his pale skin, but the memory of Mycroft's clipped tones berating him for letting someone with a knife get that close was burned annoyingly into his mind. He would have deleted it, but the lecture served as incentive to be more cautious, if only so he didn't have to deal with Mycroft's particular brand of concern again.

He raised the gauze and daubed at his cheek, hissing at the sharp sensation of antiseptic against raw flesh. He cleaned the injury quickly and moved on to his lip, then spent a bit longer working on his temple, where beneath the drying blood he found the skin bruised and shredded from a wide scrape. Finally, with an unbloodied corner of the gauze, he gently wiped his left eye, where the swelling was beginning to force him to squint. That maintenance finished, he tossed the gauze in the bin and pushed hesitantly at his skull where it had been smashed into brick - shutting his eyes briefly against the pain but thankfully finding no particular evidence of a fracture. He didn't seem to be concussed, either, though they'd certainly thrown him against the wall hard enough. But, no extended dizziness, no confusion, no nausea. He sighed and leaned forward, turning on the water, warm, to scrub off the rest of his face, particularly the left side where a fair amount of blood still adorned his skin.

The warm liquid was gentle and soothing, and he spent nearly two minutes rubbing it and a scant amount of frothy soap over his cheeks and jaw, before rinsing off the small lather and dabbing himself dry with a towel. The towel came away with a number of bloodstains, but no matter. He hung it back on the rack as if nothing was wrong with it and pulled out a couple of sticking plasters, then pasted them quickly over his cheek and temple to catch the fresh blood now welling from his injuries - his cleaning had reopened them, and he had little desire to scrub more blood off his face in a few minutes. Finished with his face, he glanced at himself again in the mirror, appraisal of his handiwork. There was nothing he could do about the black eye - it wasn't bleeding, and he'd just have to wait for the bruising and swelling to go down. He supposed he could put some ice on it, but he had little time for that. Now that his face was taken care of, he needed to move on to more serious matters.

Solving the case was his top priority, after checking on his chest and torso.

Because the injuries to his face certainly weren't the worst of it.

He strode painfully back into what passed for his sitting room - he could receive clients in it, anyway, but mostly it was his study and library and general centre for working out cases. Bookshelves crammed with an eclectic collection of peculiar tomes, some new, some ancient, surrounded a small space inhabited by one comfortable chair, one spindly wooden chair, and a low coffee table - the only other furniture. Boxes occasionally littered the floor, save for one alley exclusively reserved for pacing, and those that lay open were mostly full of chemistry equipment. Those that lay shut tended to be piled upon with more books, and various stacks of paper - although as far as paper was concerned, the coffee table was the most impressive. The table was strewn with sheets upon sheets of it, some that were scribbled upon with impatient handwriting, and some that had been written upon with even strokes and meticulous care, depending on his mood and whether or not haste had been necessary at the time. His laptop lay among the haphasard piles, its metal surface gleaming softly in the faint light that came in through the window.

And in the centre of the coffee table, atop a manuscript on the effects of poison gleaned from Amazonian tree frogs, sat the pièce de la résistance of the room, the only one who would listen to Sherlock's deductive rants without exasperation or eye rolling (sans Mycroft, and even he could be a crapshoot), the one who never called his deductions a 'trick' or sneered at his massive leaps of logic, whom Sherlock could always count on to bounce ideas off of and talk to without reticence...

His skull.

At times he fancied it his only friend, and he turned to talk at it now as he shrugged out of his coat with a pained grimace and flung it onto the wooden chair.

"Stupid of him to send thugs after me," he gasped, reaching next for the buttons on his jacket. "It's only shown his hand. Now I know he has enough resources to hire three men to come after me and warn me off, and that he's not so controlling or arrogant to insist upon doing it himself." Sherlock hissed, tugging one of his sleeves off, and then carefully pulled his bruised arm out of the other. "Doesn't like to get his hands dirty," he growled at the empty eye sockets, tossing the jacket after the coat and setting to work next on his shirt, "and yet he didn't send them to kill me, only to rough me up so - " He cut off with another gasp as he twisted the wrong way, hot pain flaring up in his left side. He stumbled sideways to the chair and gripped its left arm tightly, curling over the source of the pain and keeping his knees from buckling with an effort.

Damn. Breathing consistently hurt, so he'd known his ribs were at least likely to be cracked, but the amount of pain he was experiencing was beginning to make him think they were quite broken. He hoped feverishly that he wouldn't find evidence of internal bleeding when he finally got his shirt off. After resting a few moments, he straightened up slowly, and his fingers went back to their work on his buttons. At least he wasn't wearing a t-shirt or jumper, because pulling something over his head like that would probably have made things even worse.

"So he's not interested in killing unless the circumstances are extreme," Sherlock continued in a low voice, glancing down in the gloom as he fumbled with an inexplicably difficult button. "He has some morals left, not wanting to murder someone uninvolved in his personal vendetta, and yet he's stupid enough to think a beating will stop me..." He finished with the last button and finally flicked on the light, spreading the sides of his shirt wide and looking down at his torso with trepidation.

His skin was littered with bruises, some more rapidly developed than others, and a few scrapes that had been oozing crimson and annoyingly stained the inside of his shirt. He reached down and ran his fingers none too gently over his stomach, kneading the sensitive area to see if he could feel any potential interior problems. It seemed all right. He left off examining his battered stomach and moved up to his ribcage - a large patch of bruising ran across his upper right ribs and sternum, but it was the lower left side that had him worried. The bruising there was dark and purpled, and gently probing it left him in agony, half doubled over and clutching the chair again for support as a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. Broken, they had to be broken, to provoke that kind of reaction. It was a wonder he'd been able to run like that - adrenalin was a marvelous thing. He drew in a painful, gasping breath and pointed his free finger shakily at the skull.

"Then again," he remanded, "damage is fairly, _agh_! ...extensive. And they would have gone farther if I hadn't gotten away from them, so... _ghn_... so perhaps he intended to have me laid up, put out of commission until the investigation grew cold..." Judging by the effort they had put into pounding his upper torso, they would have broken his collarbone if they'd been able to manage it. Sherlock congratulated himself again on his knowledge of baritsu, and how it tended to come in awfully handy from time to time. The pain in his side had finally faded enough again for him to stand up straight, and he rubbed his hands together in delight as a new thought struck him. "Ooh, that means there's probably time sensitive evidence, something he expected I'd find if I kept looking, but that would be gone after a couple of days. Yes, that makes the most sense with the data available - he might be setting up a deal with contraband that'll be sold soon, or waiting for the elements to destroy something he daren't return to and risk attracting attention..."

That meant he had even less time to determine who the murderer was, and precisely why he had murdered his victim. He needed to go and get his ribs looked at, absolutely needed to, no question - but he needed to solve the case first, and put a murderer behind bars before valuable evidence was lost and the act made impossible. He licked his lips and turned to the latest diagram he'd pinned up on the wall, the Harrington case, where a young man of 27 years old had been found dead by his niece in his sitting room with blood pooling beneath his head and soaking into the sofa. A dozen suspects or more - he'd been a very rich man, and few people had been fond of him except his niece - they'd played cards on the balcony together often, and it seemed the little girl had been one of the few members of his family to truly know him.

Sherlock had felt a slight pang of jealousy as he'd watched the young girl cry, envious that Edmund Harrington, at least, had someone to cry over him in death. No one would cry when Sherlock expired - perhaps Mycroft, if for some reason he didn't die first, but his tears would likely be over quickly, short and controlled before he went back to work, the supreme discipline of a Holmes and the quintessential English gentleman winning out over any thin strains of personal grief. Not the heartfelt, desperate sobs of an innocent who saw nothing but a man she loved dead, and found no shame in crying over him. Even a sociopath could see the beauty in that. Not that Sherlock had any room to complain, really - if Mycroft died before him he too, would most likely control himself if he felt any pain. Most likely.

"But he's narrowed the field now," Sherlock told his skull feverishly, abruptly deleting that last useless train of thought and drumming the tips of his steepled fingers together in excitement. "Shot in the head, a quick death, he didn't suffer... It correlates with the murderer's merciful side - sending men to injure me, but not to kill me, possible he feels some guilt..." He remembered the voice in his ear as he was slammed sideways against the wall, his head hitting the rough brick hard enough to daze him. _We've got a message for you, Sherlock Holmes. Back off of Harrington before it's too late._

"He's been clever enough to keep himself shrouded until now, but suddenly he started to panic. It was stupid of him to tell his men to warn me off - if he was planning on forcing me into a hospital bed for a couple of days it would have made more sense to make it look like a mugging, instead of telling me for certain it was related to the case at hand. I must have done something, gotten close to something that worried him... Unless of course he's just confident enough that I won't figure it out that he believes he can afford to give me a message like that, but then if he's that confident why bother beating me up at all? No, no, it's simple panic-induced stupidity, the same stupidity that would make him think threatening and hospitalising me would make me stop. Five minutes on my website and he could have seen the folly of that."

Sherlock swept over to the coffee table with a wince and crouched painfully down to look his skull in its lack of eyes.

"So, what do have, then? Mercy, guilt, tendency to panic and act rashly, on top of that the money and contacts required to hired three mercenary professionals. Doesn't risk attacking me himself, or playing the third mercenary, though it'd be cheaper - either too frightened or having a burst of pragmatism, since getting involved himself would have been monumentally stupid." Those men had worked together like a well-oiled machine - they were clearly a team, having worked together a number of times, so there was no way two of them were hires and one of the murderer himself. Not unless the murderer was a part of the team to begin with, but that was highly unlikely. Someone with enough compassion to kill a man instantly and hold back from murdering the detective on the case, even though it would have been a more effective course of action than injury and threat, would not indulge in regular work roughing people up. Clearly he didn't enjoy causing suffering, Sherlock mused, unlike the men who'd hauled him into an alley and proceeded to systematically beat the living daylights out of him.

"Unless of course, Edmund Harrington was the exception, and he only killed him quickly because he did care for him... Or because he only had a limited time in which to get it done. But then if he was ruthless he would have just gone ahead and tried to have me killed. A compassionate nature is the most reasonable conclusion here, don't you think?" Sherlock leaned forward a little, cocking his head to one side as if he expected the skull to answer him. The skull, of course, remained silent. It would have been convenient if the skull could talk back, as long it was reasonably clever and didn't the same stupid things the idiots at Scotland Yard always said. Sometimes, when Sherlock was high or feeling particularly imaginative, he would presume to pretend that it did talk back, picturing what it might say to him as he rattled off strings of deductions.

It might compliment him, tell him he was clever instead of that he was a freak. It might bounce his ideas back at him, adding a few of its own, ideas that actually weren't half bad and might give him a fresh perspective from which to think. It might, he thought, in the darkest moments after falling out of a cocaine haze, offer to make tea and chat. But the skull couldn't do any of that, and it was foolish to entertain the idea that it or anyone else would. So usually Sherlock just talked at it animatedly, and though he gave it time to respond, in his head he wasn't answering for it, but already moving on to the next problem to solve. That was efficiency, and it was what got things done.

The skull continued to say nothing, and Sherlock just nodded as if it had agreed with him and went on.

"So, who on our list of suspects fits that psychological profile, has a fair amount of resources, and may have hinted at illicit dealings?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Only three that come to mind at present." He stood back up to survey the collage of potential murderers on his wall. Too quickly. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts he'd all but forgotten the dim tugs of pain on his body, and as he stood they roared back to remind him of his neglect, the suddenness making him dizzy. He staggered sideways and nearly fell over the coffee table, but with a titanic effort wrenched his clarity back and managed to shakily regain his balance. The hot coals in his left side reminded him that he needed to solve this quickly - not only so Edmund Harrington's murderer could be caught, but so that he could finish with the case and leave for A&E in good conscience. He ran his fingers over the damaged area again gently, trying to make sure that the broken ribs weren't tearing him up from the inside. It was a wasted effort - there was no way to tell just by that. He'd go into the bath and have a good look in a bit, once he'd gotten his thoughts organised, selected the most likely candidate of the three, and made a plan of action.

"There's his uncle Baxter, of course, made the same money Edmund inherited from his father in the steel business... Though the motivation's uncertain there, unless it was revenge or jealousy for Edmund's not having to work his way up from the bottom for his share." Sherlock tapped his fingernails against his teeth from where they were steepled together. "But perhaps there's something else involved. If Edmund found out about Baxter's gambling on the side, and something was amiss with it, it might drive Baxter to kill him. But he definitely has a soft nature, if his steady supply of sweets is anything to go by." Baxter had always seemed to have some form of candies about him, and handed them off to Harrington's niece like Christmas crackers, disregarding the damage to her teeth to offer some form of comfort in the wake of her uncle's death.

She and Baxter had seemed to have a soft spot for each other, from the brief glimpses Sherlock had seen of their interaction, and when she'd thanked him for the sweets she'd called him "Professor" and smiled. Clearly some sort of inside joke - Baxter was not a professor, nor anything close to one. Sherlock imagined it might have something to do with his glasses, as he tended to adjust the half-moon lenses whenever he was called that. They did, at least, make him look scholarly. And Baxter was prone to sudden panic too, and foolish decisions - he'd taken a phone call while they were at the house, in the next room, but Sherlock had caught snatches of the conversation, which was a nervous deal made about racehorses that was particularly ill-advised. He'd come out his study looking slightly flustered, and his grand-niece had hurried to him and asked him what was the matter.

There was a great deal of love in the girl's eyes for the old man - Sherlock hoped briefly for her sake that it wasn't him, then shook his head and turned his thoughts to the other suspects. If it was Baxter, it was Baxter, and there was nothing he could do about that except put the man behind bars. His eyes swiveled to another picture, fast scribbled notes pinned around the smiling face.

"Annabel Carson, Edmund's ex-wife - she was a very likely candidate already, but now she's looking even more perfect." There had been a number of female suspects, of course, but Sherlock tended to refer to unknown criminals in general as 'he' just to make things simpler. He wasn't going to waste his breath or his thoughts on 'he or she,' and male murderers were statistically more likely, anyway. "Motivation - revenge, jealousy, money... But probably money. If she'd got wind that Edmund had a serious lover she'd have feared losing her alimony cheques - but she was still in the will, wasn't she, if Edmund were to die instead? She's gotten enough money off of him in the past to hire minions if needed, and her shoe collection practically screamed under the table bribery. In several stores, no doubt. But all that would probably end if her steady supply of funds from Edmund dried up. Her impulsive streak was commented on, and yet so was her sweet nature - they say she wasn't even that upset to find out Edmund was gay, and after two days was almost entirely supportive."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the skull as a businessman might at a stenographer to ask if she was getting all of this. The skull sat quiet and perfectly still on his coffee table, listening to his every word. He didn't always talk out loud quite this much, but it seemed to be working well tonight. It often did on the rush cases. Fortunately, the skull made no complaints. Sherlock spun back around to the diagram, wincing and reminding himself to check on his ribs when he got the chance.

"And finally we have Phillip Masters, Edmund's secretary at the office. He's been mostly under the radar in this investigation, because he stands no particular gain from Edmund's death and is in fact, now in danger of losing his job. But," Sherlock tacked on gleefully, grinning at his macabre companion, "Masters' watch indicated that he has a great deal more money than he lets on, so the job would be of no particular consequence, and I could see from his fingertips that he habitually indulges in illegal substances. If Edmund found out Masters' was dealing, and Masters was deep enough into it, it could certainly be cause enough for murder. And Masters fits our psychological profile - volunteer at an animal shelter and the local hospital - you can't get much more compassionate than that. But he was obviously having a hard time dealing with the paperwork aftermath of Edmund's demise - he almost shouted down the phone and took two Valium while we were there... Oh."

Sherlock's eyes lit up at a sudden thought and he froze in place staring at Masters' grainy picture.

"Animal shelter and the hospital - if he's getting drugs from both of those places, he may have a wide variety of merchandise available and an extensive clientele - not to mention some elaborate potential theft charges... My charming sparring partners may be customers of his. And that could explain why he wanted me landed in hospital - if he's brokering some big deal in the next day or two and then planning to lay low when its finished..." It could have been something Masters had been unable to avoid - some sale that had been set up in advance of Edmund's death and something he couldn't back out of now. Masters was looking more likely - but most of this was conjecture at present, brainstorming only, and he mustn't jump to conclusions. So far there was only really evidence that Masters _did_ drugs, not that he was involved in any sort of large dealing organisation. "The question becomes, then - is he?"

Sherlock spun around toward the coffee table and leaned down with a grunt to sift through the top layer of papers, gathering every scrap of information he had on all three of his suspects. He most likely had a couple of hours of thinking ahead of him, to go over every piece again and try to tie it all together, shifting his newest theory to be certain it fit the facts. Theories were necessary, and conjecture was useful, but it was a capital mistake to go too far, to start twisting facts to fit theories instead of theories to fit facts. Sherlock tried very hard to avoid ever making that error.

"Of course, that does bring his 'merciful' nature into question, if he's only volunteering at those places in order to obtain drugs, but you still have to be patient and kind enough when dealing with animals and sick people, and the fact that he's been doing it for years indicates that he probably likes it to some degree, or he would have changed obtainment tactics by now. It still fits well enough, particularly if those two institutes have good staff reputation."

He swept the papers into a messy stack and plunked down carefully in the armchair - then thought better of it as his side twinged and stood slowly back up, leaving the stack on the seat of the chair. He needed to take another look at his ribs before beginning - he could spare that much time, and if he did end up hospitalised through his own neglect, well, that was what his murderer wanted, wasn't it? Sherlock flicked the light on in the bath again and stepped in front of the mirror, moving his shirt aside to inspect the dark purple patch. It was nearly black by now, but other than that didn't show much change. He ran his fingers over it lightly, hesitant to prod it again and bring on fresh waves of pain. As of now it had degraded to a dull ache, and he had no desire to reprovoke it.

He felt _relatively_ all right, he thought, staring keenly at his reflection - certainly not as if his side was quietly filling with blood. He didn't feel light-headed, as he would have if there had been blood loss, and there was no sensation of pressure that he could detect - just the persistent pain. It occurred to him that he'd forgotten to take anything for the pain, in his focus on the case, and he reached for the first aid kit he'd left lying on the counter to fish out a couple of aspirin. One wasn't supposed to take it on an empty stomach, but Sherlock had little concern for those rules. He'd eaten less than two days ago, and it didn't usually bother him at that stage. He swallowed the pills with a little water and moved back out into the sitting room, snatching up his papers and dropping stiffly into the chair, noting with annoyance that his muscles would become sore and difficult to use in another eight hours.

But that wasn't important now. He reached out to the surface of the coffee table again and drew his laptop toward him.

Now, he had to think.

ooo00ooo

Three hours later, Sherlock broke out of a thinking trance with a jolt, his eyes swiveling to the skull, who was still sitting complacently on the coffee table. It was rather nice having a friend of sorts who was inanimate - it ensured that his conversation partner, unlike living humans, would not get up and leave while he was thinking. It made for a nice consistency upon returning from his mind to the physical world. Although sometimes Sherlock thought that the inconsistency would be worth it if he could find a living human who would at least be as willing to listen to him for as long as his skull was. It might be quite refreshing, to talk to a patient ear that was flesh instead of bone - it always was nice when Lestrade managed to fully understand him. But no matter.

"It _was_ Masters," he whispered into the silent room. "It fits perfectly. Shift records from the office, the tranquilisers and opiates reported missing from the shelter and hospital, the way people looked at us when we walked in... Oh, it's all there, and it's brilliant." Phillip Masters had been trafficking drugs, and not to just people in general but to the staff of the Harrington company. Medicine had gone missing at Masters' places of volunteer work, and while nobody had managed to determine who had stolen it, it had been child's play for Sherlock to deduce that it was Masters. He even checked himself to be certain he wasn't looking at the situation through bias - but no, the evidence was there, in the police report, the police were just too blind to see it.

And then there was Masters' schedule at work - his time frame was set up to allow him to meet with certain coworkers. Sherlock had hacked into the company database to see when employees took their breaks, and although many of the short breaks were taken seemingly at random, presumably when the employees just felt like it, there were correlations every couple of weeks between Masters' breaks and those of several others. Masters had been doubling up at his place of work - using it for sales because it was convenient. Sherlock was glad that Harrington Steel required all of its employees to clock in and out even for ten minute breaks - meticulous records always made investigations so much easier. And then of course there were the reactions when the police had arrived at the company.

Sherlock hadn't been surprised to see nervous glances - everyone had secrets, and a little fear from random workers was normal anytime he went somewhere big with the police in tow. There were always bound to be a few people involved in _something_ illegal in a company that size, and it was unlikely each little transgression would be related to the case at hand. But now that Sherlock knew who was meeting with Masters, he could go back to his mind palace and recall precisely who had looked nervous. And oh, if many of them hadn't been Masters' clients. He'd found their pictures to confirm their identities, and he could remember them all glancing out of their cubicles with trepidation as Lestrade walked through the halls. They'd feared the police would catch on. Sherlock chuckled. Well, of course the police hadn't. But he had.

"A shame Masters panicked, really - he seemed quite intelligent. Before I disrupted his comfort zone he was doing very well. Oh, and I did disrupt it, monumentally," he told the skull as he stood up from the chair, papers sloughing off his lap and falling haphasardly to the floor. "I got too _ahhg_!" His impending monologue was cut off with an anguished hiss as pain shot up his chest to shock his heart. His knees buckled beneath him and he lashed out blindly for the chair as he started to fall, managing to catch himself on the arm again and groaning in agony as the jolt intensified his misery. He hauled himself half onto the chair seat and collapsed on his right side, his legs dragging on the floor and his hands curling into fists instinctively. He panted for a few moments, shutting his eyes and cursing himself for forgetting and twisting his torso like that. Three hours spent in a daze of research and processing tended to distance him from his body's needs, and now he was paying for that tendency.

He dug his fingernails into his palms and opened his eyes again, desperate to distract himself from the pain. Thankfully, no spots danced in his vision and he felt no particular lightheadness, confirming for him a distinct absence of internal blood loss. It only hurt. He glanced over at his skull, his breathing harsh, struggling to get his lungs under control so he could speak again. The skull grinned silently back at him.

Sherlock wished stupidly that it could help.

After what seemed a long stretch of time, but which Sherlock knew was less than a minute, the sharp, unforgiving throb cooled enough for him to move again. He pulled himself slowly and carefully back up into a sitting position, scrabbling to readjust his legs and testing each movement hesitantly before he committed to carrying it out. Perhaps he would take some more aspirin before going out. He needed to check on Masters' drug stash, and it was unlikely that Lestrade would be willing to demand a warrant and summon a team at this hour based on what Sherlock had to offer as evidence. He knew he was right - it was laid out in front of his eyes like a blueprint, everything slotting into place, but explaining all of his deductions to an average mind like Lestrade's, and sufficiently enough to goad the man to act was another matter. He would have to go out and find the stash himself, and present it to Lestrade already discovered.

"I've been able to triangulate the most likely location where Masters is storing them," he said roughly, massaging his uninjured temple in the hopes that soothing one part of his body would mitigate pain in the rest of it. "He was frightened because of my recent interest in the company warehouses - I wanted to see if things were really as successful as everyone claimed they were, or if Harrington was actually losing money. He didn't have the best business skills, and anyone on the Board of Directors might have murdered him to stop the decline. Masters isn't stupid enough to hide drugs in the used warehouses, but he might have thought I was going to inspect the abandoned ones that they haven't yet renovated, since Lestrade so helpfully mentioned my penchant for thoroughness in front of him.

"Only money or promises actually change hands in the offices - actually bringing the drugs in there would be too risky. But one of the warehouses at the back, where nobody goes... It would be a convenient place to keep a large stock of something illegal, particularly when one's mother lives in one's house and does all the cleaning. There would be too much danger of her finding something, so he stashes his supply in a place he's close to every day, and where he can easily access it for sales. Hands everyone their drugs in the car park at the end of the day and goes home with no one the wiser. There are other possibilities of course, but given his reaction to my warehouse enquiry, that's the most likely place at the moment, so that's where I'll head first."

Sherlock paused as if to give his skull time for comment or rebuttal. When none came, he stood back up again, very carefully, and snagged his coat and jacket from where they still lay on the other chair. Buttoning his shirt and putting everything back on again was something of a trial - trying to avoid any move that might incite his left ribs again, while simultaneously trying not to cause pain anywhere else made the process rather slow. Finally, he pulled the sides of the coat closed gingerly and buttoned it quickly up. He dug his torch out of a box on the floor, made sure he had his phone and his pocket magnifying glass on him, and then belatedly remembered that he'd intended to take more pain medication before he left. Annoyed at the further delay, he stepped impatiently back into the bath and downed two more pills before pulling on his gloves and heading for the door.

It was 4:18 am.

ooo00ooo

The taxi driver was, understandably, a bit confused as to why Sherlock wanted out of the cab at an empty steel shipping company in the dead of night, but a quick false story about being a 5:00 am shift security guard whose car had refused to start seemed to placate him well enough. Although if he'd been paying much attention to his passenger, he might have noticed the uncomfortable grimaces every time the cab hit a hump in the road. Sherlock paid him and stole into the shadows as the taxi drove off, gravel crunching under his feet as he approached the two ancient warehouses in the back of the line. He fired off a quick text to Lestrade - he'd read it when he woke up - and reached for the handle of a small side door in the first building. Luckily, it wasn't even locked, and the only resistance he met was from neglect and disuse, as the door squeaked and scraped in protest as he pushed it open.

Inside, it was pitch black, and Sherlock let the door fall shut and waited several minutes to see if he could detect any signs of life within. If Masters had been panicking that Sherlock might discover his drug stash, and had spent resources sending men to warn him off, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption that he might have posted a guard or two as well, particularly if his men had reported to him that Sherlock had got off at run - hence the text to Lestrade in the event that anything went wrong. The Inspector should be up in two hours, which would hopefully not be enough time for Masters to completely and effectively cover his tracks even if he found out immediately that Sherlock was onto him and decided to break his upcoming deal. Because the drugs _would_ be here still - if indeed this was where they were hidden - or Masters would have just moved or destroyed them in the first place instead of bothering to harass him. Clearly he didn't have anywhere else to move them and wasn't willing to destroy them, so his panicked choice of action had been violence. Masters wasn't thinking things through particularly well at this point.

After nearly five minutes and not a ghost of sound from the warehouse other than his own light breathing, Sherlock drew his torch from his coat pocket and flicked it on, sweeping the beam over old, dusty crates and forgotten pulley chains. His feet kicked up small swirls of gray fluff as he strode purposefully into the room, mindful of starting to move his body the wrong way again, his sharp eyes keenly examining the possible hiding places in the cavernous room. There were many, but he could easily narrow it down with a little brainwork. His eyes flickered over the concrete floor, looking for fresh footprints beyond his own in the dust. He didn't see any immediately, nor places where the dust had been disturbed by anything larger than a rat, but he hadn't come in through the only door, and it was probable that Masters used a different one. Probably closer to his office...

Sherlock stepped in the direction of the office building and general car park, listening to the wind picking up outside and the roof of the building rattling. Occasionally specks of dirt and dust sifted down from the rafters high above, and Sherlock frowned at the threat that falling debris posed to his mission. Between it and the rats there was a chance of compromising the dust disturbances he was looking for, though not to excess. He would be able to distinguish human traces from others, but if Masters had had the foresight to obscure his footsteps - and even if he hadn't, he may have done so upon learning of Sherlock's interest in the warehouses - this could conceivably take a little while. Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked the time. 4:57. Almost two hours before the employees arrived and Harrington Steel buzzed with life again. He should be able to finish before then. He pushed his phone back into his pocket and drew level with a large crate that appeared to have been gnawed upon.

He should have brought his skull with him for company. But then again, that would have made things even more difficult to explain to the cabbie. Oh, well. Despite the aches emanating from his upper body, the adrenalin of a case and accompanying brainwork sang quietly through his veins.

This would be fun.

ooo00ooo

* * *

...And there's the first chapter. Hilariously, this was only supposed to be a two-shot, but now it's going to be at least four chapters, if not six. My own penchant for thoroughness dooms me when I begin to focus on the details of a case. John will eventually make an appearance in the aforementioned fourth chapter, as the original idea of this fic was to highlight the difference in Sherlock's life before and after John. Hopefully updates will be about every week, but if you've ever read anything I've written before you might know that I'm terrible about update schedules...

There are two distinct references to the books in this chapter - bonus points for those that recognise them. If you don't recognise them, bonus points, anyway.

Please review if you're up to it, and I hope you'll enjoy the rest.

Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

After twenty-five minutes of checking for human-produced dust disturbances in front of every door he could find, and delving into a few crates even when he saw no such disturbances, Sherlock decided that it was unlikely the stash was in this warehouse and that he'd better check the other. He switched off his torch and slipped back out into the gravel yard, the chill breeze greeting him and distant streetlamps casting a pale orange glow over the deserted car park. Sherlock crunched quickly over to the second empty warehouse and located the nearest door, eager to get out of the wind. The door screeched in as much protest as the others had, and after he bundled inside and pulled it shut behind him, he again waited patiently for several minutes to see if anyone was about. Hearing nothing, he turned his torch back on and returned to the search.

The second warehouse was just as cold, just as dirty, just as wind-rattled, and just as lifeless as the first - but it bore fruit, and in plenty. Sherlock repeated his method of ghosting from one door to another, looking for footprints or disturbances in the dust, and after fifteen minutes found precisely that. He paused in front of the metal entryway and smiled in satisfaction as his torchlight played over a wide, circular groove that had been carved in the dust on the floor - the result of someone opening the door over and over. And leading away from the telling mark was a scuffed path of imperfectly disguised prints - the dust had been stirred up to cover it, but it was actually the disturbed dust that helped to show where it was, and now and then Sherlock could even make out a trace of a heel or toe mark that had failed to be completely obliterated as he followed carefully alongside the obvious trail, making sure not to damage it.

It led him directly to a couple of large crates that didn't have nearly as much dust on them as the others. He reached out and opened one.

Inside was what appeared to be a pile of old blankets.

Sherlock snorted - it was as poor a disguise as the attempt to get rid of the footprints. He reached in and hauled the blankets out, piling them on top of the adjacent crate. He only had to go a few deep to find what he was really looking for. He tossed the last blanket aside and adjusted his torchlight to get a better look.

And grinned in absolute glee.

Inside the crate was a number of smaller boxes, carefully organised and clearly full of illegal drugs, helpful paper labels even pinned to their open cardboard flaps. Some of the boxes contained small phials of liquid, others pills, and yet others powders and crystals. He looked mournfully at a large quantity of cocaine baggies, and considered taking a few of them, but the risk was too great if Lestrade managed to find out, and it could muck up the investigation. And Masters, a secretary with obvious organisational skills, clearly knew how much was supposed to be in there. If he realised that some of it was missing, even he could make waves, and at that point Sherlock would probably be number one on his list of people to accuse of anything.

So Sherlock merely took a few pictures with his phone, dumped the tattered blankets back on top of the drugs, closed the crate and opened the second one. It too required a bit of digging in ancient fabrics, but after he got through that bit, he was mildly surprised to come across a safe. It was a bit of a dated model, with a combination lock that Sherlock probably could have broken into without too much effort if he'd tried – though he had little interest in doing so, leave that to the police - but in the hands of most people it was probably secure enough. Masters must be keeping the money he collected in it - of course, he didn't want to take it home where he'd have to either try to hide it or explain it to his mother, and apparently he didn't want to put it in the bank in case somebody bothered to look into his accounts at tax time and wondered where the hell he was getting all of it. So he kept it in here, locked up in case the others tried to steal from him, and took money out of it from time to time.

Actually, Sherlock reflected, it seemed Masters had something of an honor system going with the drugs themselves, since they weren't locked up as he might have expected. An honor system was usually a bad idea with drug addicts, but since all those people seemed quite functional enough to go to work every day, perhaps it wasn't so foolish in this case. Perhaps Masters dipped into the drug stash often to supply his clients, but only took payments every couple of weeks. Not every employee at Harrington Steel would make enough to always be ready to pay upon delivery of the goods – Masters might let his clients take now and pay later, and perhaps he deemed it too cumbersome to lock and unlock the drug stash each time he accessed it. Again, Masters surely knew precisely how much was in there, and so would know immediately if anyone stole from him, and while he clearly wasn't willing to wantonly murder, he wasn't always above a little physical damage. He might employ Sherlock's three attackers as a sort of regulation team, in the event that anyone did steal something – or more likely, if they failed to pay up. And anyway, all of those people had to work together, and Masters, as Harrington's secretary, had had the ear of one of the most powerful men in the company. He could most likely have gotten any troublemakers fired as well as threatened.

Or maybe he was just an idiot about that sort of thing, and hadn't felt like buying two safes.

But apparently he didn't consider whatever precautions he might have in place to protect the drugs enough protection for his actual money. Sherlock supposed that someone could always try to slip in counterfeit - less risky than slipping in fake or low quality drugs and having Masters get a complaint from a client - but still impractical and far more trouble than it was worth. Well, Masters' personal paranoia imbalance was hardly important now. Sherlock could prove that the man was quite a lucrative drug dealer, and from that springboard of motivation he could also prove Masters had murdered Edmund Harrington. Masters' alibi had been falsified, for one thing. He'd gone to the gym that night, and twice - once for the attendant to see him walking in and once for the attendant to see him walking out. But after he'd become a top suspect, Sherlock had gone through the CCTV footage of the most likely route Masters would have had to have taken to the Harrington residence, and lo and behold, the secretary could be seen walking down the pavement when he was supposed to be at his gym.

Sherlock was certain Lestrade would love to hear Masters explain that.

And more evidence would come out once the police began to investigate Masters fully, and Sherlock was given free run over Masters' house. Which he would demand, since Lestrade had been stewing in a sea of uncertainty and endless suspects for the last two days, and now here Sherlock was, cracking it all open in a span of less than six hours. Sherlock took another couple of pictures, tossed the blankets back into the second crate, closed the lid again, and closed the photo app to once more check the time. 6:02. Lestrade's alarm had gone off two minutes ago - Sherlock might as well call him now. He pulled up his contacts and within seconds was listening to Lestrade's phone ring. It took three and a half rings before it was answered.

"Sherlock, I just woke up, this better be good," Lestrade said grumpily, his voice still thick from sleep.

"You didn't read my text, did you?" Sherlock deduced easily. "No matter. I'm at Harrington Steel right now."

"Of course I didn't read your text, I don't read texts the very first thing in the morning. And what are you doing over there, the place isn't even open yet."

"Just solving your case for you," Sherlock answered, not bothering to hide the hint of smugness in his voice. "Phillip Masters is quite the drug lord, I don't suppose you knew that? I'm standing two feet away from his stash in one of the old warehouses at the back of the lot - I'll send you pictures in a moment. He's been making money at work by more than just being a secretary. Harrington almost certainly found out about it and Masters killed him to keep him quiet - he's clever enough when he's got things under control, but if he doesn't he tends to panic and stop thinking clearly. Also, he wasn't at the gym that night, he was heading in the direction of Harrington's house and I can prove it. Enough for a warrant yet?"

"Okay, okay, slow down..." Lestrade yawned, and Sherlock heard something clunk in the background, followed by a muffled curse. Lestrade had knocked over his bedside lamp and only just barely caught it. "Masters - Harrington's secretary? He's dealing drugs? How the hell did you figure that out?"

"Do you really want my explanation now or when you're more awake?"

"Oh all right, fine. Look, I'll be at the Yard when my shift starts, come to my office and we'll go over it. Then we can see about inspecting the warehouses. You say you know right where the stash is?"

"Of course, I just found it," Sherlock said impatiently. "And time is of the essence in this case - I'm fairly certain Masters is planning to sell out completely in the next day or two - get rid of his stock so the police can't find it. That's half of why I came out here so quickly. I want your people out here today, this morning. He'll probably make the sale at night, but with Harrington dead and the board trying to figure out how to replace him, Masters has fewer eyes on him. If he's nervous and stupid enough, he could try to make it on his lunch break."

"Wait, what's gotten him so nervous?" Lestrade asked. "He seemed all right enough when we talked to him the other day. What's changed?"

"Me!" Sherlock practically snapped. "Word must have gotten back to him that I was interested in the warehouses and he snapped. I know because he sent - "

Sherlock broke off abruptly as a horrible screeching sound rent the air.

Someone was coming into the warehouse.

Whom it was Sherlock could guess.

And Sherlock had left nice, clear footprints that led, naturally, directly to where he was standing.

And that didn't lead out.

Sherlock switched his torch off instantly and shoved his phone deep into the dark folds of his coat pocket, effectively blocking the light it was giving out and Lestrade's tinny "Sherlock?" He dodged swiftly back behind the crates and melted into the shadows, trying to figure out the best path to the nearest door without tripping over everything in the blackness. Of course opening the door would blatantly give away his position, but if he could just get outside, he had a much better chance of escape in general...

Torchlight blared whitely of a sudden and the light spun in a sharp arc - then it paused and quickly dimmed as it was directed to the floor. His footsteps had been seen, and of course, not any of the slightly meandering ones from earlier, but the ones that led immediately to the drug stash twenty feet away, as Masters had come in his usual door. Sherlock thought his ears detected a curse as he stepped further back as silently as possible, his eyes struggling to pick out slightly darker shapes in the blackness behind him. His ankle struck something hard as he heard footsteps moving quickly toward him, and he changed direction, risking a glance over his shoulder and trying to crouch as much as possible with his damaged stomach and ribs.

The light flashed up again, but Sherlock had managed to get behind a taller stack of crates, so his position wasn't immediately obvious. He could somewhat use the light to his advantage, as it helped to illuminate the dark he was currently trying to wade through, but he could only use the barest outer tendrils of it or he badly risked being seen. Sherlock eased back from the crates, turned around, and nearly hit himself in the face with a hanging metal chain. He swayed slightly off balance for an instant, caught himself, and moved as quickly and silently as possible toward a dark patch of shadows and what looked like the black shape of a broken down crane.

He froze as he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, his pulse speeding up to beat even more rapidly.

"Okay, I know you're in here," a nervous sounding voice proclaimed, quite terribly failing at being intimidating. At least, the voice was failing - but a skittish person with a gun was never a good thing to be around. Sherlock took another silent step toward the crane, and another. "Just... Just come out, okay? I don't want to have to start shooting. Yet," Masters added, obviously trying to imbue the word with a threat. Sherlock ignored the request and took two more steps. He heard the footsteps behind him start again and saw flashes of light as the torch beam arced wildly, fortunately blocked from touching him by the earlier crates. But it wouldn't last - the footsteps were coming his way, and all Masters had to do to find him was follow his prints.

Sherlock threw caution to the wind and decided it was best he get behind a metal object, whether he was heard getting there or not. He doubled his speed and dove behind the crane a few seconds later, catching his foot against some piece of debris and tripping sideways into the machine. The resultant clang was impossible not to have been heard - and so was Sherlock's sharp gasp. Fortunately, he'd struck his right side - he didn't even want to think about what it would have felt like if he'd struck his left - but it was still painful, banging against his other bruises and the jolt certainly not doing his broken ribs any good. He gritted his teeth to quell his rapid breathing and looked quickly for the next place to move. Near impenetrable darkness presented itself, but he slid toward it anyway as he heard Masters practically running after him.

Perhaps he should just pull out his own torch and make a break for it - but the light would present an obvious target, and if Masters panicked and shot at him... Sherlock hurried into the dark mire, hoping for something to dodge behind, hoping not to trip again or run into any -

He saw the vague shape of the industrial ladder a split second before he slammed into it, his attempt to veer off to the left once again marginally sparing his broken ribs. He hissed in pain and stumbled past the metal frame, light suddenly filling the area and giving him a good view of the row of crates blocking his way. Damn, damn, damn! Maybe if he could get over the smallest group of them... But the light was suddenly centred on him, its attention temporarily blinding, and he nearly tripped again over another piece of something as his body protested its treatment angrily. And then from somewhere behind him Masters was shouting at him.

"Stop! Stop running, hold still or I'll shoot you, I will! I'll shoot you! Stop and put your hands up where I can see them!"

Masters sounded terrified - and therefore completely serious. Sherlock stopped trying to run - not that there was anywhere to go - and slowly turned toward the glaring light, holding his hands up and out and wiping the grimace of pain off his face to avoid showing weakness. He blinked at the harsh light in his eyes and fought to control his breathing, hoping that Masters would at least lower the torch. But Masters didn't seem interested in granting Sherlock's mental wishes, and kept the torch right in his face, leaving Sherlock with only a silhouette and the faint gleam of an unidentifiable gun beyond the glare. Unfortunately, Masters probably realised that it was to his advantage to keep Sherlock blind – though what Sherlock couldn't see at present he could easily imagine.

He remembered Masters well from their first and only meeting – a young man, 28 years old, thin and jittery and intimidated by the confident D.I. asking questions and the tall, imposing consulting detective beside him. Glasses perched on the end of his short nose, his dark eyes turned down to his nervous fingers, fiddling with the papers on his desk as he answered Lestrade's enquiries with a slight stammer. A man who'd clearly landed a job more prestigious than he'd anticipated when he'd been sending out his résumés – personal secretary to a large company's CEO? Clever enough, skilled at his trade, but still finding it hard at times to cope with everything on his plate, and now his employer was dead... of course, Sherlock knew now, _that_ was his own fault. It was surprising, really, that such an unimpressive, quiet man like Masters had managed to set up a large, underground drug business and to hire people far more frightening than himself – it probably would have been amusing to see his first interactions with Sherlock's three attackers. In fact, Sherlock had earlier considered that his nervous demeanour might even have been an act to throw the investigators off track – but now it was quite obvious that his personality was no facade.

"Hello, Phillip," Sherlock said in a calm tone, forcing himself to speak with all the tranquility he could muster. His heart was hammering frantically against his sore ribs, and it was difficult to fight down his own panic, but if he reacted with calm, then perhaps Masters would return to some semblance of serenity, too. At least enough that the gun in his hand would stop shaking. If only he weren't quite so far away! He was nearly ten feet from Sherlock, and showed no signs of coming closer, effectively destroying any chances of suddenly disarming him. Sherlock wondered if he might have done better to try ambushing the man from behind crates, but with his injuries and a nervous trigger finger in the equation that wouldn't exactly have been prudent, either.

"Dammit, why are you here?" Master demanded, barely seeming to have calmed.

"I came here to find your drugs," Sherlock said evenly, marginally lowering his eyelashes against the light. There was no point in denying it - Masters had seen where his footsteps had gone.

"I know, but why?" Masters sounded frustrated and upset. "I warned you to back off..." He tailed off, clearly uncertain that he should have mentioned that.

"Oh don't worry, I already deduced that it was you who sent those men after me. You killed Edmund Harrington - it's quite obvious." Sherlock tried a casual step forward as he talked.

Masters took a step back, the light jerking up for an instant and then landing squarely back on Sherlock's face.

"Stay right where you are!" he hissed, for the first time managing to actually sound rather menacing. Sherlock stopped quite still and attempted to look as though his movement had been completely innocent.

"You don't want to kill me," Sherlock pointed out gently. "Or you would have shot me already."

"No, I really don't want to kill you," Masters admitted, his voice steadying. "But now that you're here, it's not as if I have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice. You can lower the gun, stop choosing to be a murderer."

Masters snorted.

"Oh, that's cute. Really. And then what? Turn myself into the police? Get thrown in prison for the rest of my life?" Masters paused, and his gun hand calmed its tremors, but that was of little comfort to Sherlock as Masters went on cynically. "I can't stop being a murderer, Mr. Holmes, I can only hide it. And that means I kill you, too."

"I would really rather you didn't."

"Well, it's your own fault!" Masters snapped, his tone sharp and accusatory. "I didn't ask you to come out here! I even tried to stop you!" He paused, waving the light up and down over Sherlock's face and forcing him to blink rapidly against the glare. "Anyway, you look terrible. How are you even standing? You're supposed to be in a hospital bed."

"Oh yes, so you can sell out today or tomorrow? Your attack was very ill-advised - I could have solved this case from hospital if necessary," Sherlock said, his eyes starting to water. "Seems your minions failed to inform you that I got away from them," he added reflectively. "So you didn't come here looking for me."

"They're professionals," Masters answered, sounding surprised at Sherlock's statement. "I assumed you were either in A&E or the gutter at this point. How did you get away, then?"

"A little knowledge of an obscure martial art," Sherlock said with a smile. "Perhaps they were too embarrassed to tell you. In that case, you're very early to work."

"I come in early a lot," Masters said. "To check on the stash and make sure no one's been stealing. My clients are pretty trustworthy, but you know how addicts are."

Ah, so that was why Masters had suddenly appeared, when Sherlock had imagined he had nearly another hour before the company's employees arrived at all. Stupid! Sherlock berated himself for not anticipating the possibility.

"And you came in today to double check that everything was ready for your big sale," Sherlock concluded. He'd suspected as much when he'd first heard the door open, but he should have thought of it sooner... Still, an entire hour early? Masters _was_ a paranoid man.

"Yeah," Masters agreed. He sighed heavily. "Except now I've got to deal with you instead."

He sounded regretful. He wasn't a man who enjoyed killing, and Sherlock could use this to his advantage.

"Edmund wasn't looking at you when you shot him, was he?" he said suddenly.

He heard Masters swallow hard.

"No... What does that have to do with - "

"He never saw it coming," Sherlock pressed. "He died instantly, no suffering. He didn't even know he'd been killed."

"I don't like causing pain... unnecessarily," Masters said pointedly, gesturing at the injuries on Sherlock's face with the gun for emphasis.

"I know. Ah, but Phillip, I'm very much aware. I'll be looking right at you if you kill me. And that bothers you, doesn't it?"

Masters shook his head. He seemed to be steeling himself.

"It doesn't matter. I can't let you live."

To Sherlock's horror, the gun slowly adjusted, aiming for his forehead.

"But the police already know!" he said quickly. "If you kill me, all you'll do is add one more murder charge!"

He hadn't really wanted to let Masters know that - it gave him more opportunity for escape. But if it was between giving Masters a better chance of avoiding jail and a bullet between the eyes, Sherlock was going to pick survival. If he lived, he could easily track Masters down. Besides, he hadn't told Masters that he'd been on the phone with Lestrade the moment the man had walked in. Lestrade had heard him cut off - and Sherlock's phone was still on in his pocket, although if Lestrade hadn't ended the call yet, it was doubtful that he was getting much beyond cloth rustling and the occasional garbled shout. But Lestrade wasn't stupid, no matter how many times Sherlock called him an idiot, and he would have realised that something was wrong. With any luck, he could be on his way now. And if Masters killed Sherlock anyway, at least Lestrade had the tools now to go after him.

Sherlock really hoped Masters didn't decide to kill him anyway.

"You're bluffing," Masters said confidently, the response taking Sherlock by surprise. "You don't really work _with_ the police - you barely tolerate each other, from what I saw. And you came here in the middle of the night. Like you'd bother to call them at five in the morning."

Sherlock paused momentarily, searching for what to say next. He hadn't expected Masters to disbelieve him. Well, this was a new one.

"I called not long before you came in," Sherlock said truthfully. "The police do have a night shift, you know," he added, less truthfully, but in the same earnest tone.

One thing he _wasn't_ going to tell Masters was that he'd only called Lestrade - no sense proffering another single target when could imply that the whole force knew. Of course, Lestrade might have called it in by now, but either way, Sherlock wasn't going to give Masters the idea that it was only the Detective Inspector who knew. Because then he might go after Lestrade, too.

"You're bluffing," Masters repeated, although for a flicker of an instant he sounded more as if he were trying to convince himself. "You're just trying to save your skin. No private detective calls the police in the middle of the night."

"_Consulting_ detective," Sherlock corrected, blinking hard and keeping his eyes past the light, on the edge of Masters' shadow. Technically, he was both, but anything to keep Masters talking. "And I'm not an ordinary one."

"Look, it doesn't matter!" Masters snapped. "It's quarter after six, and I don't have a lot of time. I need to kill you now."

No, no! Sherlock needed more time, he needed to stall - how many minutes had it been since his conversation with Lestrade had been interrupted? Assuming Masters' statement of quarter after six was accurate, about ten minutes, though it didn't feel as if that much time had passed. More likely Masters was rounding and it had really only been five minutes, or seven – but Lestrade's house actually wasn't too far away. And the seconds ticked by, became minutes, as long as Masters kept hesitating... if Sherlock could just engage him, could just keep him talking...

"But don't you want to know how I found out it was you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even and not blurt the question out too quickly. "Aren't you a little bit curious?"

There was a pause before Masters answered.

"Why would you tell me that?"

_Yes_. Masters was interested.

"I like to share the reasoning I use in my work," Sherlock said casually, once again being completely truthful. Not that there was anyone who actually much cared to listen. "I could tell you where you slipped up, make it easier for you to evade the police. And you want to do that, of course."

Masters snorted, the gun jolting slightly at the action and making Sherlock's heart jump.

"And I ask again, why would you tell me that?"

"We could make a deal."

Another lie. Sherlock would promise him Heaven and Earth if it would get him out of this, and gladly give Masters over to the police as soon as they arrived. ...Assuming Lestrade _was_ coming... When Masters again hesitated, Sherlock pressed on.

"We could make a deal. You let me live, I keep quiet about you and help you to slip through the investigation. The police _will_ find you without my help."

"No," Masters said sharply, shaking his head. "I can't trust that you'd keep quiet. You're a liability."

Sherlock's insides turned cold at Masters' response, but he kept up an unruffled exterior.

"You said yourself that the police and I barely tolerate each other," he pointed out. "Do you think I have much loyalty to them?"

"You, uh..." Masters floundered.

"Most of them despise me," Sherlock interrupted him. "You know I only work with them because solving puzzles is fun? That's all cases are to me, ask any of them." Sherlock licked his lips, warming to his embellishments. "I don't really care about catching the criminals, only figuring out who they are and showing the police that I did it. But I can forgo the latter if it keeps me alive."

Masters was silent again for a couple of seconds while Sherlock blinked his smarting eyes and, despite the torchlight, tried to keep them more or less pointed in the direction of the man with the gun.

"The information could be very useful to you," he continued, "You'd have a much better chance of covering your tracks." Hope lightened Sherlock's heart as Masters appeared to be considering. "You've left an obvious trail, really," he stressed. "The police will find it for themselves soon enough if you don't act."

A complete lie, naturally - the police wouldn't have managed to figure out Masters' drug dealing if he'd kept his cocaine in his filing cabinet. And of course Sherlock didn't intend to give Masters any real tips on hiding himself - but if he could fabricate, if he could buy a few more minutes, he might still have a chance. But Masters was shaking his head again.

"No. I still can't trust that anything you tell me will be true."

"But can you afford not to hear it at all?" Sherlock prodded.

"I can't afford to let you distract me!" Masters looked visibly upset, but unfortunately determined.

"And what if someone else finds out?" Sherlock said sharply as Masters steadied the gun again. "Are you going to kill them, too? Just keep on killing? Become a serial killer to keep up this little charade?"

"I'm not a serial killer!" Masters shouted. "I kill you, I sell, and I'm done, okay? I'll end it."

"Well that's certainly a lot of comfort to me," Sherlock said bitingly. "I'm sure Edmund would agree - it's not as if he had anything to live for. Just a company, and a family, and a niece who loved hi - "

"Edmund was a sociopath!"

Masters actually took a step forward at the declaration, and Sherlock paused in surprise at the vehemence in his voice.

The wind whistled distantly outside, and for a brief moment, the words hung in the air.

"...A sociopath."

Sherlock kept his own voice steady with effort. From behind the glare of the torchlight, Masters nodded.

"Yeah. That's what I'd call him, anyway. You didn't know him. Well, I did. Edmund was an egotistical bastard whose own family couldn't stand him! Killing _him_? I don't think I really did anything that wrong." Surprisingly, Masters' voice carried hardly any guilt. "You'll notice how many suspects you had besides me - lots of people hated him. And he didn't even care! All he cared about was his job and efficiency and making other people feel like idiots!"

Masters look another small step at his last outburst and Sherlock considered that switching tactics to goad him into anger might actually be a better idea. But he was still much too far away, and infuriating the man who was convinced he needed to kill you was not generally a good idea. Particularly since Masters felt little guilt over killing his first victim - someone who'd apparently been a lot like the man he was now holding at gunpoint. Sherlock had known that Edmund was not well-liked among his family and peers, but to have the word he so often used to describe himself thrown in his face as justification for the man's murder... He swallowed hard and resorted to an accusatory stance. If he could get Masters to feel any real guilt over Edmund's death, he had better odds of survival.

"So you were just looking for an excuse to kill him, was that it?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes smarting badly from the constant light by now.

"No!" Masters protested, sounding badly insulted. "I'm not like he was - I actually care about people!"

"Which is why you're going to kill me," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"I never _wanted_ to kill you!" Masters insisted. "I didn't want you involved! But you came out here - even though I warned you not to. So... So it's not my fault if you did!"

"It's your fault if you pull the trigger!" Sherlock said harshly, putting as much barb into his voice as possible.

"All right, _look_!"

Masters took deep breath to calm himself, trembling as he did so.

"Look, I've got a whole stash of drugs over there," he said, irritatingly gesturing with his head so he could keep the gun on Sherlock. "Including tranquilisers and sedatives. Would you rather take a bunch of those and just go to sleep? That won't hurt, and then I don't have to deal with blood."

Sherlock laughed.

The suggestion was so ludicrous that the light-induced tears he'd been fighting to hold back finally spilled over onto his cheeks with the hilarity.

"Oh," he said breathlessly, swiping liquid off the left side of his face with the back of his thumb. Masters waved the gun reflexively, but otherwise didn't protest the gesture. "Oh, _of course_," Sherlock agreed. "Then you won't have to deal with blood. Of course, I'll be happy to die in the manner that's most convenient to you." He laughed again, helplessly, his laughter full of sarcasm and bitterness.

"Well fine, then," Masters said heavily. "I'll just shoot you instead."

Something in his tone made Sherlock's blood chill - and he knew that in that instant that Masters was pulling the trigger.

He dove to one side as the gun went off, actually hearing the bullet whistle past his ear. His laughing expression had no doubt switched to one of panic, and seeing his victim visibly frightened seemed to give Masters pause for a precious second. Sherlock pulled out his torch and hurled it in Masters' direction, following it blindly in a crouching leap, spots exploding in his vision as the glaring light finally subsided. He heard the torch connect, the thunk of metal against flesh, Masters grunted and the gun went off again, deafeningly loud, but it obviously missed because Sherlock was still alive and he was almost there, he could vaguely see Masters behind the floating blue burn in his retinas...

And then Masters swung the gun instead of firing it.

It caught him high on the forehead, the sudden pain sweeping through his skull and making him stagger back, dizzy. He blinked hard, struggling to focus, and through his hazy vision he could make out Masters readjusting his aim, preparing to shoot him again. Sherlock ducked his head, forcing another readjustment, lunged forward diagonally and lashed out with his right fist, slamming into Masters' gun hand and knocking the weapon to the floor. It went off again on impact, and Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't been hit yet. Of course, he meant with bullets not with fists, because as his sudden momentum flung his upper body forward, the dizziness rushed back abruptly, weakening his knees and making him feel nauseous. And while he stumbled and fought to stay upright on unsteady legs, what he could only assume was Masters' fist crashed sharply into his right ear and sent him flying sideways into the floor.

On his left side.

He screamed with agony as his ribs slammed into the concrete, the white hot splash of pain spreading up to numb all other sensations and bringing hot, unwanted tears to his eyes. He tipped instinctively onto his back, his vision blacking out as he gasped and jerked uncontrollably, his body trying to curl up to protect itself and failing to manage it. He felt sick again from the intensity, and he turned his head sideways as his stomach clenched and forced him to vomit, but nothing came out and he only gagged on dry heaves that made the pain worse. He could almost feel his eyes rolling back in his head, and he fought against the loss of consciousness with some vague but deep and desperate instinct of survival, because really he wanted nothing more than to embrace the blackness so that please, the pain would go away.

He floundered in a dark, confused world as his brain struggled to regain control, the sounds of his own agonised gasps seeming disconnected and far away. He could only just feel his own body beyond the sharp, unforgiving pulse in his side, the pain drowning out everything but the brush of his clothes and the hard concrete beneath his back. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids refused even to flutter, and no light seeped between them to guide him back to reality. He started to groan in frustration – and then he suddenly found that he was unable to cry out anymore. There was a pressure on his throat that was stopping him, blocking his efforts to vent his agony in the only way he could. He tried to reach up to move it away, but his arms felt leaden and useless, and all he managed to do was to raise his hands feebly and twitch before his limbs collapsed again and he stopped moving altogether.

Somewhere beyond the background clamor of his own blood vessels roaring in his ears, he heard a horrible screeching noise, like someone dragging a handful of sewing needles across glass. In his current state he couldn't identify it, but if he'd still been able to force sound past his throat, he would have thought it was just him screaming again. He felt himself go limp and nearly numb, and yet he was conscious of his chest beginning to ache, a dull, persistent throb that slowly grew to constrict his heart. His ribs were still burning up the side of his body, and now his lungs too were on fire, but he couldn't do anything about it, no matter how hard he tried to move his body wouldn't obey him and he was fading away... A distant voice echoed strangely in his ears and he had trouble processing what it was saying.

_All right, step away from him! Right now! D'you hear me, right now! Sherlock! Sherlock!_

Something grabbed his shoulder and yanked him upright, rocketing him forward into a sitting position, and he tried to cry out in protest as pain flared up afresh, but he couldn't get any noise through his blocked throat - all he could get it to do was hurt.

_Sherlock! Can you hear me? Can you breathe? Are you breathing?_

He was being rocked back and forth gently, but the motion tore at his ribs, and he managed a pained whimper, which only made the burning in his throat worse. Something pressed hard into his stomach, and the bruises there protested angrily, and as he tried reflexively to whimper again a sharp feeling built up in the back of his throat and suddenly exploded outward in a cough that seared his insides and his throat and his lungs and he started to gasp in agony, but the air seemed to get caught as it tried to enter and he choked on nothing and then he was struggling to breathe, which he suddenly realised he hadn't been doing for a while.

He was pushed gently forward again, and it felt like there was a hand on his face. He tried to shy away from the touch, but then he coughed again, his shoulders jerking, and though it ripped through his insides as keenly as before, this time the pain was followed by air. Cold air flowed into his lungs, shocking him back into a vague semblance of alertness, and with the help of whatever was still pushing him forwards, he leaned over his knees and fought for more. He gasped and wheezed, and hissed as his desperate bids for oxygen pulsed hot and agonising in his left side, but his body forced him to keep breathing, drawing in air through his raw esophagus and he slumped forward with tears still leaking out of his eyes, inhaling and exhaling labouriously.

_Oh, thank God. Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?_

Slowly the jumble of pain and noise and vague sensation started to coalesce, and the fuzzy voice that had come to him through layers of cotton solidified into Lestrade at his side, holding him up from the back and pressing a hand against his forehead. He gave a faint moan, speech still beyond his capabilities, and reached up to push Lestrade's hand away, swatting clumsily and ineffectually at the D.I.'s wrist, while Lestrade merely clamped on tighter.

"Just relax, okay?" Lestrade told him. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

Bleeding? Belatedly he remembered Masters' strike on his forehead. The gun must have cut into his skin, and now that Lestrade mentioned it, he could feel liquid on his face, warm and wet, though rapidly cooling. He dabbed at the right side of his face and came away with dark red soaking into his glove. He frowned. Now he would have to get his glove cleaned. He glanced around the room, trying to get his bearings, and noted with annoyance that everything was still bruised over with blue and purple. He blinked rapidly, and the wide, round images flashed, still hanging in his vision. Where was Masters? He couldn't see!

"Where... Where'masters?" he asked, his voice coming out rough and squeaky and difficult to control.

"Oh, he ran off," Lestrade answered. "I got hold of the gun and threatened him with it, that's how I got him off you, but I couldn't focus on you and him at the same time, so he managed to... Oi, what are you doing? Hold still!"

"Don' le' 'im," Sherlock wheezed, struggling to get up against Lestrade's grip. "Don't let him... get away..." Sherlock managed to more or less form a regular sentence, although his voice was still badly strained. He inhaled sharply as he jarred his ribs, and quickly stopped fighting Lestrade, contenting himself with pulling out his phone instead.

"Call an ambulance," Lestrade advised, moving his hand back to Sherlock's blood flow. "This isn't stopping."

"Head wounds... _eah_... bleed a lot," he coughed. "It's fine, A&E later." He pushed the phone at Lestrade. "Call out a man, _cough_, man hunt on him."

Lestrade glared at the phone, then took his arm off of Sherlock's shoulder blades to reach for it. Unexpectedly deprived of his support, Sherlock started to tip backwards, his tired body startled by the loss and unable to catch itself. Lestade abandoned going for the phone and quickly caught at Sherlock's back again, stopping him from falling, but the jolt was enough to make Sherlock whimper. Lestrade eyed Sherlock's torso critically.

"What else is wrong with you? Something else is wrong with you, you keep doing that."

"It's fine," Sherlock repeated, taking a gulp of air and feeling his voice start to even out a bit. "I'll call, then."

He remembered Sergeant Donovan's number - she should be up by now.

"Sherlock, call an ambulance!" Lestrade said in exasperation as Sherlock punched in a sequence of numbers that was clearly not 999. Sherlock ignored him and put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. After two rings, it picked up.

"Hello?" Donovan said uncertainly, the usual response to a call from an unknown number.

"Sally," Sherlock said as evenly as he was able. "Phillip Masters. Need the Met to find him, he..." Sherlock paused to cough and Lestrade grappled for the phone, his attempts hindered by trying to both keep Sherlock upright and avoid spilling a handful of blood.

"Give me that!" Lestrade demanded, lunging for Sherlock's sleeve and backing off as Sherlock winced.

"What's going on, Freak?" Sally also demanded, her voice echoing up through the phone.

Sherlock sighed in frustration and put his mobile on speakerphone.

"You talk to her," he rasped, shoving the phone in Lestrade's direction again. He didn't want to deal with being caught between of the two of them. On top of all his other pains, his head was really beginning to hurt. Lestrade leaned over the phone in Sherlock's hand and addressed his team's sergeant.

"Donovan?"

"Sir? What's going on?"

"I need you to alert the Met, we need to find Phillip Masters. Edmund Harrington's secretary, from our case? He did it."

"Masters? You sure?"

They both knew this question was asked because she knew Sherlock had supplied the accusation.

"Yes, very sure," Lestrade answered, while Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to will his pain away.

"All right, I'll call in and send out his photo. Any information on where he's going, what's he's wearing...?"

"He was wearing a suit for work, last I saw him. Uh, green shirt, yellow tie. I think. He's probably in his car, so look up the plate number. Don't know where he's going."

"Ugh," Sherlock huffed in frustration. "None of you pay attention to anything. He knows you'll be searching for his car so he'll have left it after about ten minutes and gone off on foot. He'll probably get a taxi or take the Tube next, depending on how much cash he has..." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "How soon did you hear the door? He had a safe in one of his crates, he may have picked it up. Probably left the drugs, though."

"I don't know when I heard the door," Lestrade said uncertainly. "I was a bit busy checking on you. There could have been a pause, yeah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, too-slowly fading afterimages flashing at him annoyingly.

"If he has that money things will be easier for him. Start calling cab companies, but look at the Tube too, of course. He'll have taken off his suit jacket and tie at the very least, so mention that in the physical description. And where he's headed is easy, he'll be trying for Lowestoft."

"Lowestoft?" Sally said sceptically.

"His childhood home before he came to London," Sherlock elaborated. "I went all through his file last night. He's still got friends there who might be willing to help him, and there's a port where he can conceivably catch a freighter to the rest of Europe. Check the train stations to see who's buying tickets to Lowestoft, and if they're paying in cash."

"Anything else, Freak?" Sally asked sarcastically.

Sherlock shook his head automatically, and Lestrade made a noise of protest as drops of blood flew through the air. Sherlock ignored him.

"No, that's everything relevant. Unfortunately I couldn't see him very well, so I can't provide much more data."

"It's plenty," Lestrade said firmly. "Find him and arrest him," he said to Donovan. "As soon as possible."

"And charge him with the murder of Edmund Harrington?" Sally asked.

"The murder of Edmund Harrington, the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes, and the possession and intent to sell illegal substances. All three."

"Two," Sherlock remanded. "Leave me out of it."

"Sherlock, he tried to kill you - "

"I wasn't here," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not pressing charges. You've got plenty on him already."

Lestrade sighed.

"We'll talk about it later," he said long-sufferingly. "All right Donovan, just charge him with the other two for now."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"No, that's all," Sherlock answered for him, and promptly rang off. He shoved the phone into his pocket again and sagged back into Lestrade's arm. In addition to the sharp ache spreading through his skull, he was starting to feel a bit light headed.

"Sherlock, ambulance," Lestrade insisted.

"I don't want an ambulance," Sherlock said shallowly. "I'll take a cab. Or you can drive me."

"Ambulance," Lestrade repeated. "And what happened to you before this? Masters didn't give you that black eye, and he didn't supply you with sticking plasters, either."

"Altercation. He sent three men after me earlier - wanted me in hospital." The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upward in an ironic smile. "I suppose he's got his wish now, though a bit too late to be useful to him."

"You were attacked earlier tonight?" Lestrade demanded. "Why didn't you report it?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, his eyelids drooping half-shut.

"It wouldn't have done any good. They could have been anywhere by the time I got home," he pointed out wearily. "It was the middle of the night and I didn't get any sort of look at them - and I was a bit preoccupied with getting them off of me to notice much about them except how good they were at their job. Reporting it would have been a waste of time. And I had work to do."

Lestrade sighed too, his exhalation showing a similar amount of exasperation. But he accepted Sherlock's explanation without further complaint.

"Well, we'll be sure to ask Masters about it when get him in for questioning." He readjusted his grip on Sherlock's shoulders. "Now we should get you an ambulance."

"Yes, we should go, there's nothing more I can do here..." Sherlock agreed. He took a breath. "But drive me, will you? I just solved your case."

"And I just saved your life, so you're not in any position to make demands."

"Drive me," Sherlock said again.

Lestrade sighed a third time and checked Sherlock's forehead.

"Your head's still bleeding. Can you even stand up?"

Sherlock struggled to get his legs underneath himself, and with a massive effort clawed his way upward, using Lestrade as a ladder and completely ignoring his cries of "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He only had one chance to get himself standing - he knew if he fell back before he was all the way up he'd never make it again. Over half of the voluntary muscles in his body were screaming at him, and his head and ribs ached. He pushed off of Lestrade's shoulder and stood completely, swaying, his eyes going out of focus as dizziness washed back over him. He managed to catch himself on Lestrade again as the D.I. stood up next to him, and leaned heavily on him for support, feeling his legs growing weak and shaky.

"Easy, Sherlock," Lestrade said, his face too close for comfort and his forehead creased in worry. "Do you want me to help you go back down?"

"No," Sherlock said hoarsely, shutting his eyes in an attempt to combat the dizziness. It was making him nauseous again, and he didn't want to have dry heaves, especially not from a standing position and especially not with Lestrade here. He had figured out from his vague memories as he was sliding into unconsciousness precisely when Lestrade came into the picture, and although he was probably outside when Sherlock screamed, he would have been thankfully still out there when Sherlock was attempting to vomit. No need to enlighten him about what he'd missed. Sherlock leaned against Lestrade on his right side and waited desperately for the dizziness to pass. When it finally lifted, he opened his eyes slowly, pleased to see the ghosts over his retinas finally starting to fade in earnest. With an effort, he managed to regain control of his legs, and started for the exit.

"Careful, we don't want to disturb the crime scene," he mumbled, veering off to avoid stepping on Masters' dust footprint path.

"Slow down," Lestrade said quickly, as he struggled to keep up - a condition that only lasted a few seconds as Sherlock suddenly sagged against Lestrade again, dangerously close to blacking out. He felt confused and exhausted, his battered brain failing at intervals and his transport betraying him. It was the blood loss that had to be causing most of it - Lestrade was still trying to stem the flow from his forehead as they walked, but it wasn't yet letting up. Although Sherlock supposed his lack of sleep over that past couple of days might also have something to do with it... He stumbled badly, allowing Lestrade to guide him to and out the door, his eyes barely open until they reached the cold wind again and it woke him up a bit.

"Should have called an ambulance," Lestrade muttered as they wended their way to the squad car. He opened the passenger door as they reached it and carefully lowered Sherlock in. Sherlock collapsed completely as soon as he hit the seat, his entire body giving up its earlier stubbornness and melting wholeheartedly into the vinyl cushions. Lestrade started to pull the seat belt over him, but Sherlock pushed it away weakly.

"No sea'bel'd," he requested in a voice slurred from exhaustion. "Id'll hurt."

"All right," Lestrade conceded, as Sherlock's eyes fell shut. "I'll be setting a bad example, but we'll just make sure not to crash."

Sherlock heard Lestrade walk around the front of the car and get into the driver's seat. The door slammed, annoying Sherlock's headache, there was a rustling, and then Lestrade pressed something soft into his right hand. After a moment's struggle he managed to open his eyes to look at it... and it appeared to be a pile of paper fast food napkins.

"For your head," Lestrade said, wiping his crimson fingers on one of them. "I can't staunch your blood flow and drive at the same time, so you'll have to do it. Just press as hard as you can." Sherlock stared stupidly at the napkins, for some reason finding himself unable to grasp what he was supposed to do with them. Lestrade sighed, then grabbed the back of his hand and pressed the palm full of napkins against Sherlock's forehead. "As hard as you can," Lestrade repeated, hesitantly letting go to see if Sherlock's fingers would stay where they were supposed to be. Incredibly, they did. "Sherlock, can you keep that up?" Sherlock mumbled an affirmative and tried to press a little harder. His arm felt half dead and he was so tired...

He heard Lestrade start the car as his eyes fell half shut again, and he tried to prop his arm against the door's armrest to keep it in place. It seemed to work. A moment later they were moving, and gravel crunched under the car's tyres as Lestrade maneuvered them out of the car park and onto the street. The drive seemed endless. Sherlock slumped against the car door with his body curled protectively around his ribs, staring faintly out the window as the streetlights flickered past. His eyelids drooped lower and lower, and his view of the streets grew dark and smeary, everything melding into a seamless world of purple and black, the background hum of the engine soothing in his ears, the occasional hump jolting him slightly more awake with a wince.

His arm got too tired, so he turned and pressed his head against the window glass, trapping the napkins between flesh and bone and liquid sand, his blood running down the side of the door and staining the black vinyl, leaching out across the glass in a spiderweb and where it flowed the glass cracked, and white flecks of cocaine appeared among the red even though he hadn't been using, he'd been on a case and hadn't needed it, so perhaps Masters was trying to implicate him in the drug ring to make his case less sound...

There was a sudden click and the door disappeared and he was caught by several hands as he tumbled sideways. They bumped into his ribs and pain blossomed and he hissed and curled up and tried to pull away from them, but they were pulling him up and out, away from his warm, shadowed womb and out into the cold and light - though they were taking care to avoid his ribs now and were moving him quickly and gently. They took off his coat and he whimpered at the loss of heat, reaching out desperately for it but it was whisked away, and he tried to ask for it back but he couldn't form words. The world turned horizontal, yet he kept moving, and suddenly a sharp, bright light was shone in his eyes and he flinched, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to get away from it, not wanting to go through Masters pointing a torch in his face for so long again. He'd finally got rid of the afterimages, and he didn't want them back.

A plastic gloved hand came down and peeled back his eyelids, and he tried to reach up to stop it, but he couldn't move his arms. They were dead or numb or disappeared, or something had him by the wrists. The light flashed over his eyes again and he cried out faintly as it hurt, unable to shut his lids this time because of the fingers holding them in place. He struggled to speak, to tell them to stop, he didn't want light in his eyes again, no, he didn't want to be shot, Edmund Harrington was already dead and how much longer could he keep Masters talking...? His lips moved desperately, and he managed to croak out one pathetic syllable.

"No."

The fingers on his eyelids went away and the light vanished with them. He shut his eyes again, tightly, gratefully, not sure if they'd understood him and granted him mercy or if they'd merely finished and the timing was coincidental. Plastic suddenly covered his mouth and nose, and it annoyed him, but again he couldn't lift his fingers to tear it off. He tried shaking his head from side to side, but that brought fresh pain, and in any case, the movement was too weak and slow to be effective. Several moments later he realised that breathing had suddenly gotten easier, so he stopped worrying about what must be an oxygen mask and concentrating on trying to make said breathing less painful. His throat still ached and swallowing burned and smarted.

He kept getting colder and colder, and by the time his teeth chattered and he found himself shivering he discovered that somehow his shirt was gone. He was lying, his torso bare, on some kind of bed with papery sheets that crinkled at the slightest movement. Hands were running over his injuries, pressing here and there and he hated it, especially when they started prodding the spot on his left side and he cried out in desperate agony, trying to move, trying to stop them but his limbs refused to respond. The fingers pressed there once more, and tears leaked out of his eyes, and then he felt a prick in his right arm and a soft cloth wiped the tears from his face and a hand was on his forehead. Presumably that was supposed to be some form of comfort, but the hand disappeared after a couple of seconds and then a thermometre was pushed into his mouth.

And then the most wonderful, glorious thing happened.

The pain started to fade away.

Mycroft would be angry - they'd given him morphine, he could tell by the cloud like sensation and the gentle high his mind suddenly coasted upon as it trickled into his veins. The hot, aching throb in his side that had plagued him for so many hours receded in the wake of the cool, pleasant sensation that the drug wrought in his body. The pain in his head was carried off by a summer breeze, the roughness in his throat melted and vaporised, the cuts and the bruises and the black eye vanished clean away, and he sighed in utter, absolute relief, his entire existence transformed into bliss as his whole body seemed to slowly turn into liquid. He tried to say thank you to whomever had done that for him, he tried to lift his head as the thermometre was taken away, but he still had no strength and the morphine was quickly sapping was what left of his conscious energy. His lips formed the words, but he couldn't push out the sound, so he gave up after a few tries and hoped they understood.

Something cold was lain across his forehead, and then another on his stomach, and he shivered again, but it wasn't too unpleasant because now he had the morphine to comfort him. Something poked his left side, where it used to hurt, but now he felt only pressure, not a hint of pain from his nerve endings, and when whatever had poked him slid in between his ribs it didn't bother him at all. He tried to open his eyes again, vaguely curious about his surroundings now that his body was no longer shrieking in agony, but all he managed to see was a little white light, glowing in from the thin gap between his eyelids, and he shied away from such illumination again, preferring to stay in darkness than once again weather its bright glare. And he was tired. He could always observe after some sleep. The case was solved, and he could afford to rest now, especially now that his pain had been taken away. Yes, he would do that. With the soft cloud of the morphine singing gently through his veins, he relaxed the last tendrils of his hold on reality and slipped pleasantly into sleep.

ooo00ooo

* * *

So, since I posted the first chapter of this, an evil flip top desk tossed my laptop to the floor and screwed up my hard drive, I spent about two months unable to access any of my files, then I went home and started working almost immediately and was quite busy, then I starting borrowing someone else's computer to get online and such, then the files were finally gotten off of the first hard drive and onto an external one , then I transferred the folder of my writings to the computer of the person whom I was borrowing from, then I started working more on Chapter 3 but still wasn't satisfied with Chapter 2, then I went to an internship for five weeks where I was quite ridiculously busy and wrote zero fan fiction (except notes and ramblings in my head), and then I came back home and started actually writing again and finally, FINALLY I have gotten the second chapter of this up.

Took a bit.

Anyway, all of that happened, and this story is becoming much more extensive than it was originally planned to be, so I hope you enjoyed this long, juicy chapter because I don't know when I'll update next, but I will bloody well try. Of course, the fact that I'm an annoying procrastinator and keep trying to write five others things before I've completely finished one thing doesn't help, but it's not as if I'm being paid for this. Still, I feel like I should ATTEMPT to show some responsibility to my readers, all twelve of them, so this is me trying. By explaining why it's not done.

Shutting up now.

Review?


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